


Spitfire Hair and Manly Clutter

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-11
Updated: 2005-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James comes home early from the pub, much to Lily's inexplicable (and terribly arousing) offense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spitfire Hair and Manly Clutter

James stood outside the spare bedroom, absolutely baffled.

He'd come home from the pub with a desperate need to see his girl. He'd dropped his coat by the front door, toed off his shoes, pounded up the stairs with the grace of an Erumpent, and leapt onto the landing with a mile-wide grin.

Then it all got fuzzy.

There'd been a blood-curdling scream, a book thrown at his head (excellent aim, his wife-to-be), a whole lot of cursing, and the door of the spare room slammed in his face. There may or may not have been a glimpse of voluminous silk skirts mixed into the experience – any such vision was probably part of the concussion he'd no doubt acquired.

"Lily?" he ventured at last.

There was a strangled yell of rage from behind the bedroom door. "You bloody useless arse!"

All right. Clearly he'd done something very, very wrong. James gingerly touched the goose-egg forming on his forehead and thought through his movements that night. He and Lily had been on good terms when he left the house with the lads. He didn't smell too terribly of smoke, and he definitely wasn't drunk. He was even home early.

A mystery then.

He tried to calculate the proper response to an offense of unknown origin. Play for sympathy, perhaps? "I bit my tongue when you screamed." He hoped he sounded properly plaintive.

"Since you clearly didn't bite it _off_ I don't give a shit!"

Big no-no on the sympathy front. Perhaps he should appear contrite, devoted, a forward-thinking husband-type who believed in the virtue of dialogue. "Can I come in? Talk about . . . "

There were banshees who couldn't summon a yell as impressive as anything conjured up by Lily Evans. "Come in? Are you bloody MAD?"

James frowned in confusion and wondered if there was any chance Remus could offer him a little advice by floo. He checked his watch. He likely wasn't home yet, and if he was . . . well he didn't suppose Moony and Sirius had headed home to read Austen. The whole situation just proved the absolute injustice of granting a gay werewolf fluency in bird-speak while leaving James to try and understand when 'pass the biscuits' meant 'pass the biscuits' and when it meant 'did you notice what I did with my hair?' Hair. _Oh_. Maybe? Worth a shot. "Did you do something special with your hair today?"

"GAAAAAAAAH!"

Not hair then.

James pressed a hand to the bedroom door and sighed. It was time for his last resort, a tactic that made the Marauder in him wail, plead and sob. He screwed up his courage, and brought honesty to the fore. "Lily, I've no idea what I've done. Please?"

The door flew open and James was confronted by the vision of his intended standing defiantly before him in her underwear. His breath left him in a sudden whoosh. _Oh now this really isn't fair_ , he thought desperately, mesmerized by the lace barely covering his girlfriend's breasts. _I'm in enough trouble without . . . no, no, NO, down you bastard, down . . ._

"You have no idea?"

James swallowed and fought the urge to run his hands through his hair, if only to ensure his fiancée looked anywhere but his suddenly attentive crotch. "None."

" _I was trying on my wedding dress you great gormless git!_ "

James thought it was rather bloody crap of his body to find the furious light in her eyes an added attraction. "Okay . . . ?"

Lily ruefully shook her head in a manner that suggested all pure-blood wizards should be introduced to the business end of a red-hot poker. "You really don't know, do you?"

"No." He had no idea what it was he didn't know, but not knowing what he didn't know seemed to cover all the not knowing bases that could be up for grabs right now. "I don't have a clue." _And could you possibly put on clothes? Or forgive me so that I can pin you to that nice quilt your mother just gave us and defile it the way the universe intended?_

"I was trying on my wedding dress." Lily spoke through gritted teeth.

James stared. "Mmhm."

"You," she stuck a very pointy finger at his chest, "can't see me in my dress before the wedding because it's the very _worst_ kind of shitty luck."

"It is?" James pulled thoughtfully at his earlobe. "Why's that then?"

Lily sighed and closed the space between them. "Haven't the faintest idea. Tradition?"

James tentatively let his fingers skim up her arms, coming to rest at her elbows. _Merlin_ she was beautiful, all creamy skin and dancing freckles, long limbs and inviting curves. He was beginning to lose the thread of the conversation, what with her breasts being right _there_. "Tradition?"

Lily chewed her bottom lip for a second. "Bit daft I suppose." She eyed him ruefully. "Wizards don't do that?"

"Oh we have traditions." If he could just stop her talking, James had a feeling the evening could still end on a satisfying note. He began to edge them both toward the bed. "But they usually involve fertility and ravishing."

Lily quirked an eyebrow. "Oh _really_."

"I sense you're a skeptic," said James.

Lily started as the mattress jammed into the back of her knees. "I can't think why."

"Lesson one. Do not mock the sacred traditions, Evans. They become most displeased."

Lily fell back against the bedclothes. "You mean to educate me?"

James grinned, crawling over he as she scooted up the bed. "Of course. It's tradition, for example, that . . . " He paused, glancing quickly at one hand and touching each finger to his thumb in rapid succession. ". . . fifty-seven days before the wedding? The groom should take his fiancée into the spare bedroom and shag her absolutely senseless. Important thing to know."

"Really." The droll tone of Lily's voice was somewhat betrayed by the arch of her hips as James trailed a hand over her belly.

For his part, James had a world class retort at the ready when Lily wound her hands around his neck and claimed a kiss. He was almost disappointed to lose such a fantastic insult to her ministrations.

Almost.

But it was well nigh impossible to regret the slide of Lily's tongue against his own or the cardamom taste of her lips as she hummed her appreciation. She pulled off his glasses and cast them aside (thank god for _accio_ and _reparo_ , he thought) and her hands were bloody _everywhere_ , pulling at his shirt and skimming up his back, tangling in his hair and oh _shit_ , his cock, his ever-loving cock . . .

James shifted and they tussled until he had both of her hands in his grasp, pinned firmly to the bed. She was laughing at him, _laughing_ , and it was irresistible and frustrating and by everything holy, it made him so hard. "I said the _groom_ should take his _fiancée_ to bed and shag _her_ senseless," he muttered. "Stay _still_."

"No," she said with a smile.

Which was when lazy thoughts of seduction went out the window, because this was something else – frustration and laughter and embarrassment and reward and the kind of thing that caused James' eyes to roll back in his head. There were teeth and lips and tongue and touch, gliding hands and skilful fingers, murmurs, moans, and broken words – but more, there was tussling, and a desperate battle to see who'd come out on top.

Quite literally.

Lily won, sheathing him inside her with a moan that made his toes curl and a seventeenth-century expletive burst out of some dark recess of his brain. He considered dying for a second as she rocked her hips, but it seemed such a waste of what promised to be a truly spectacular orgasm.

"Bossy," he muttered, rocking back against her and half hoping she wouldn't hear.

She grinned at him, breathless, glowing. "Yeah?" She gasped as he slipped his hand between them. "You like it."

James thought it was rather unsporting to introduce the question of what he liked when he was flat on his back buried in the tight heat of Lily's body. Clearly he liked what she was doing right _now_ and he doubted he had the words to explain the difference between this and the concept of 'bossy' in general. He took a breath and thought he'd give it a try. "Nnnngghhhhh," he managed, as she purposefully squeezed her muscles around him.

Lily laughed, cupping her own breast in her hand and squeezing gently. "Sorry," she said, thighs flexing just a little bit faster.

"Sorry?" Oh that had been a terribly unmanly squeak of a voice.

"For the . . . _oh_ . . . yelling."

James closed his eyes and circled his fingers, desperately trying to find exactly the motion that would make her shut _up_. "Thanks," he said politely, hips jerking upward. "But could we . . ." He opened his eyes, and the words died on his lips.

Because suddenly it struck him that this was his bride. He was _marrying_ this woman, this creature with spitfire hair whose wit could cut him, whose curses could actually make him blush, whose smarts put him firmly in his place at least seventeen times a day. And she'd been trying on her _wedding dress_ – she was really going to do this, take him up on the mad idea that they be grown ups together, She was choosing to have him, clutter and all, even knowing that he farted and never picked up his underwear and had the iciest feet in the world. And she was fucking _glorious_ , sitting astride him, smiling that smile, leaning forward and . . .

Lily bit down on his bottom lip, and the world exploded.

By the time James came back to himself, Lily was tucked up beside him, leaning on her elbow and studying him with delight. It was, he decided, bloody unfair that he should be assaulted, ravished, and rendered utterly useless by one woman in less than an hour. He was going to need to read Quidditch magazines later, just to reclaim some sense of something he did better than her. "Hi," he croaked.

"Nice work with my quim," she said, mischievously.

The words, the _idea_ unhinged him completely, and James Potter laughed until his stomach muscles cramped in protest and he very nearly cried. "Shit," he managed at last, laughter still spilling unpredictably over his lips. "I mean, just _shit_." He ran a hand over Lily's hair and smiled, completely and utterly smitten. "I love you. "

She grinned at him and leaned forward. "Love you too," she said before kissing him with lips that tasted like ginger, her tongue dancing over his, pepper at its edge.

"Question," James asked as they broke apart.

Lily laid her head on his shoulder. "Hmmmm?"

"The dress." He paused. "Where is it now?"

Lily stiffened. "In the wardrobe With your _shoes_. Oh _shit_!" She leapt from the bed and wrenched open the wardrobe door. "Get out, you useless bastard, get out!"

And James left, naked as the day he was born, laughing fit to split his side. There were boots in that wardrobe, Quidditch gear and filthy shoes and the vision of his naked bride wrestling silk and lace from the olfactory grip of his trainers was more than he could bear. Fifty-seven days 'til the wedding.

If she didn't kill him before then, this was going to be one hell of a life.


End file.
